Safari Reli

Nikiwa mtoi, my mom alipenda kutumia words kama:

“Kutangatanga.”
“Kurandaranda.”
“Kuzurura.”
“Kuzungukazunguka.”
“Kutembeatembea.”

Cause, manze, I was like a pet cat who had everything indoors: a warm bed, food, and a roof over my head. But fungua mlango tu kidogo and I was gone with the wind.

Nakuwanga na kiherehere na kimbelembele btw. I used to take this as an insult, but over time it has grown on me.

I yearn for the outdoors.

Wapi?
Na nani?
Nikido?

I don’t care. I just wanna be outside.

Mi si msafiri, ’cause msafiri feels like someone who has a destination and a purpose for going there.

Mi ni vagabond.

Mi hukuwa tu nje.

I remember making peace with this after being on a train for three days and three nights, going from Mwanza to Dar es Salaam.

Everybody on the train was miserable, exhausted from the journey. I was glued to the window, watching bushes and thickets and shrubs and hills pass us by. The train felt still, like the sun, while the world outside was the one in motion. And I was hypnotised.

I remember getting kizunguzungu from this realisation.

This illusion of going somewhere.

My mom was right.

About everything.

Sometimes, after hearty conversations with strangers, they will stop and look at me searchingly and ask:

“So where are you going to end up eventually? Or after here, at least?”

And I go:

“Yeah, haha!”

While nodding my head manically, blank-eyed.

I once read in the Bible that Cain was cursed to “roam the earth forever.”

I think about Cain often.

I know I’m not cursed, though.

A curse would feel miserable, wouldn’t it?

I like roaming about.

I like being outside.

Maybe that is all there is to it.